


It Was Never Alright

by didsomeonesayventus



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 01:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4120750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/didsomeonesayventus/pseuds/didsomeonesayventus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Never, not once."</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was Never Alright

Noctis has always dreamt. Always. Visions of death and suffering. An empty, starless void like some kind of laughing maw ready to consume him. But there is also panic, fear, this whirling sight that he can’t escape because it’s too real and he’s too helpless and she’s there and the stars and their loving Mother have forsaken them- 

Noctis is always afraid. Because he is tiny. He is small. He never saw the stars, only tall buildings that never slept. He thought the stars weren’t there, hiding behind a black, bleak shadow that he could barely grasp the concept of with mud splattered walls and a whisper that the sky is dark daddy, the sky is dark. When the meteors fall he feels sympathy. 

Gladiolus is taking it all in stride. His grin is unchanging, his flippant nature unperturbed by anything. Nothing hurts his prince, nor his ego. He makes his jokes, some bawdy, some just deadpan commentary on the land. Noctis learns fast under his steady and trained arms, and his dares to feats of strength push them all beyond their limits enough to grow.

In Gladiolus’s smile, however, there is a flicker. He shakes his head and combs his hair. He talks about his father, his bloodline, his duty. It’s the same tired drivel his companions have heard, time in, time out, but they will always listen. Gladio is the only one actually expected to die, after all. A sad fact that never leaves their mouths, locked away in the back of their heads with the hopes their thoughts won’t be poisoned by it.

Ignis’s glasses keep cracking. He gets spare pairs whenever he can. He’s getting new nicknames like “five eyes” or more. Prompto’s betting Gil with Noctis how long it will take before Ignis can’t buy any more glasses or when he won’t be able to buy anonymously and reveal himself a dead man walking. Still, the scholar wears the lenses until he can’t see anything through them any more. Spider webs coat his eyes, dulling the spark within.

Ignis sews their clothes and cooks their meals in silence. He gazes at the stars above them and stays up long past embers watching the constellations taking their nightly promenade. His jokes during the day become curt. Then they become more mean spirited. One quip leaves his fellows gaping at him in shock and outrage. Ignis fixes his glasses with a sense of apologetic shame, but says nothing.

Prompto is taking more and more of his medicine. “A clip full of bullets into some monsters and chocobo hugs, to be done daily!” he jokes. No one catches him worriedly reading the prescription, wondering how much is enough and what is too much. Ignis catches his stomach hurting, and always asks if Prompto had his medication. They’re a little slow to kick in. Always a little slow.

Prompto is always the one getting into trouble. Always the one asking to turn back. He gets a few ribbings from Gladio, jokes of cowardice that he firmly calls sanity in reply. He’s tripped more than any of them, arms full of scrapes. He’s always the scrawny one in a headlock from Gladio. He puts up with it, but suddenly yells and scream about being the “pushover” the “clown” the “play thing”. He doesn’t come back when night falls, and Noctis is the one who finds him injured and collapsed by the road. Prompto is brought back and welcomed with warm food, attention to his wounds, and most of all weary, remorseful hugs

The journey is harder than they thought. They never imagined how sick of camping they would be. Where was a warm bed? Where was a solid roof? They huddle the tent under trees when the rain comes roaring, and learn to ignore the leaks. Ignis always accepts sleeping under them if it means Noctis gets a dry slumber. They learn that a hard ground cannot be remedied with just sleeping bags and pillows, and that illness can’t be cured with just a pill or syrup. It needs a piece of home, a place to truly rest. Instead of using the Gil he has earned from bets with Prompto and grocery missions from Ignis and sparring “rewards” suddenly Noctis finds that he’s handing it to the poor, the homeless, the needy, charities, anyone who needs the money more than them.

Prompto is the first to learn. Their names, plastered all over social media. 

“#4TheCrown”, “#NoctisCaelum”, “#GladiolusAmicita”, “#IgnisScientia”, “#PromptoArgentum”. Woven in with things like “Don’t let them die in vain!”, “Do it for them!”, and “Niflheim’s “regime” is bull----!” They all have locked their accounts. Any accidental post could clue they survived or give away their location. But they see it. They see the people of Insomnia rebelling: gathering weapons, groups, rallies. Insomnia also suffers: the loudest of rebels brutally silenced, women dragged to the ground, corpses of all ages, genders, and walks of life, shrines to the fallen with tear-stained faces raised to the sky with a quick “#EtroBless” or “#Pray4Insomnia” or “#WeWillSeeTheDawn”.

Life is a wreck. Etro’s name is thrown with bitter sarcasm.

“Thank Etro for the crick in my neck I’ll never get out!”

“Thank Etro we’re alive in hell!”

“Thank Etro for our parents dying quickly!”

Some days they wonder what the fuss was ever about.

Nothing was ever okay.

**Author's Note:**

> I am too invested in this game I swear and Duscae 2.0 painfully reminded me of this.


End file.
